


hymnal

by khirimochi (NekoAisu)



Series: posthumous [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bad Decisions, Blindness, Canon-Typical Violence, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Excessive Drinking, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood Spoilers, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Injury, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Miqo'te Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), One-Sided Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, One-sided pining, Original Character(s), Patch 4.5: A Requiem For Heroes Spoilers, Permanent Injury, Pining, References to Depression, Two Shot, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, War, White Mage Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), White Mage | WHM (Final Fantasy XIV), auditory hallucination, not really sure if that tag is the best to use, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21599599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NekoAisu/pseuds/khirimochi
Summary: Fahmi forgets many things─most of them being old, inconsequential details─and doesn’t notice bigger things slipping from his grasp until he reminisces over swaths of smoke and bloodied banners like breathing with ash-blackened lungs was how he came to be.He forgets peace.
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel & Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel & Warrior of Light, Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Haurchefant Greystone/Warrior of Light
Series: posthumous [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1266878
Comments: 2
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> mind the tags and lmk if i forgot anything!!
> 
> i am (as always) beholden to my need to write all character lore out of order and then trash it in a few months when my entire timeline changes. would that i have self control ;;w;;
> 
> want some quick references to Fahmi, illiterate idiot of the hour and disaster cat supreme? look no further than here: https://house-nikephoros.tumblr.com/tagged/fahmi-nikephoros

War is cacophony. There is dissonance in all things—who falls, who triumphs, what hands are bloodied by steel and whose are blackened by failure—and it brings the Warrior of Light to his knees. He was to be a god among men, a paragon, someone who can carry the weight of the world without being brought low, but how would he do that when everywhere he steps there is failure. Eyes stare at him from below charred Grand Company caps, bright flares of fire illuminating slack faces wrapped in leather and the dull red of Garlean uniform. They curse him with lips burnt half off and a silent tongue that speaks only to the soul.

Dead men tell no tales, yes, but they leave their grudge. Wading through hundreds and thousands and miles of death, things reach to pull him back—pull him  _ down— _ so that they can ride atop his shoulders to vindication. 

With every enemy he strikes down, gales sweeping smoke and gas away from him same as entire units of soldiery, he feels heavier. There is a running bet on whether or not he will make it to the site on time. There always is. 

Who would believe in a savior who is always too late? 

Choking on guilt, he continues onward. 

There are more bodies, burnt-out husks of Garlean steel smoldering in heaps, and too many more faces. There is nothing that smiles or taunts him, but there is the screaming of the air where it protests the destruction streaking through it, the crying of the earth where poison and blood mix to make toxic wine, and the soft singing of his magic where it spills in excess from his lips and tongue and fingers. Prayer will not solve this problem, but it soothes his nerves. The Twelve are good, they are kind, he has been told and he believes it. If he asks for peace, guidance, a path through a battle long in the making—he would have it. 

It is not given in words. Not in spoken tongues or even the shifting song of wind. It is a feeling that says,  _ follow this trail and do not stray. _

Thinking of how tiny he feels—how terribly, perfectly  _ inconsequential  _ he has become—he is brought peace. He has faced gods and their mortal devotees. When put face to face with the ideology of man, what could he do if not obey. 

Bending at the knee is the least he can manage when their expectations of indomitable martial destruction bow his back. 

He forges onward through soot and the taste of burnt skin, treading on dirt and stone and bodies just to make it to the chosen place. He would stop Zenos yae Galvus where he stood, or he would die.

It is that simple.

Arrival feels like the break between songs on an Orchestrion, the little click- _ tap  _ of reaching the end of a roll before the next is loaded in, and the last few beats are heralded by the slow stride of an inexorable fate. 

He stops. The roll reaches its end. There is a phantom memory of a familiar  _ click  _ to match. He hefts his staff, fingers numb from too harsh a grip, and allows the Twelve to guide.

They do not allow him victory. 

With each strike barely caught, there is a terrible screech. Glancing blows shower sparks and thin curls of steel where they’re carved from the body of his staff. Zenos does not relent but… calling him that seems disingenuous. It isn’t him. The being walking with measured steps and the heavy  _ ching  _ of armor is not the same predator. 

They are more. 

Armed with the unfettered might of Zenos’s arsenal and the wisdom of the ancients, an Ascian wears his skin and hunts his prey. Before such omnipotent power, there is little left to do but dodge and sweep stone carefully from the earth in potshot attempts to draw it out. Not that they work, but attempts are made. The less time this being has to wreak havoc on ordinary soldiery, the better.

The longer the fight drags on, the more he struggles. Aether is run dry, potions exhausted, hands covered in nicks and rapidly healed gashes both.

And all the Ascian has the nerve to do is continue the assault. 

When Contracentravity sends him stumbling, head buzzing with feedback and vision filled with sparks, he leverages to his feet. When a blade cuts too deeply into his skin, he simply presses a hand over it and seals the wound the next second. There is nothing he cannot force his way past until he hits his limit, aether sputtering instead of screaming when he tries to force a little more from his veins, and new patches of scar tissue and numbness take what dexterity he had left. 

He falls, time and time again. A warrior vanquished. A martyr nearly slain. Without any aether left to heal himself or defend against further wounds, he is simply mortal. Another soldier bested at his own game. He spits dirt from his mouth and casts weak spells with his eyes closed, tiny bits of shrapnel biting into his cheeks and eyelids from a few too many meetings with the ground. Even should he open them, he would not be able to see past the migraine building like a sudden fever.

And when the Ascian lifts their blade one last time, he can taste death at the back of his throat. The downswing is invisible against the sudden vertigo of a Call.

He blacks out.

There is nothing waiting for him.

  
  


Waking feels like dying. There are tingles, strobes of color, pounding in his head and ears and heart, terrible aching pains that reach through muscle to burrow into bone, and a complete lack of ability to move. He can feel his body, however beaten it is, and assumes his head has not been cleaved from his shoulders. Z’ahir would be angry with him if it was, he thinks. What an overprotective brother he has.

There is pressure on his head and the dull, residual pain of recently healed lacerations stretching from cheek to forehead and ear to ear. It is not a promising sensation. 

He tries to open his eyes, reach out a hand, breathe the barest whisper of a word—nothing happens. Not the first time and not the fourteenth. 

It’s lonely.

He entertains himself with thoughts of how his family is doing, what his friends are getting up to, and if he managed to help stop the war. The last thought of the three is overwhelming. It is not long after he remembers that this is a result of his failure that he begins to cry. His ears sting when he folds them back, tiny scrapes not quite healed making themselves known. 

Crying hurts far more.

Whatever afflicts his face is far less kind than some miscellaneous scabs. The moment his eyes well with tears, things begin to burn all along his eyelids, prompting further tears. It’s a terrible feedback loop of grief and acute discomfort. 

When a tear finally manages to slip down his cheek, it feels like he’s been crying for hours. He’s soaked whatever lays over his eyes with enough saltwater to fill the entirety of the Ruby Sea, or so it seems, that it has finally reached its limit and can hold no more. Another drop follows in short order.

It is only when he is thoroughly damp and miserable that the creak of a door is heard. It’s muted in comparison to the  _ thump, thump, thump  _ his heart has been broadcasting from chest to neck to ears, but it’s audible nonetheless. Someone steps into the room, shoes quiet but floor less so, heralding their approach with myriad creaks and groans. 

“Fahmi—! By Halone,  _ breathe _ . Can you do that for me?”

He chokes on air, struggling to do more than wheeze quietly and continue crying. Deep breaths make his ribs ache something terrible.

“You’re alright. It’s going to be alright.”

He doesn’t believe it, but he listens nonetheless. His breaths do not come easier and the tears do not stop falling, but the hand carefully unwrapping what feels like miles of gauze and cotton bandaging is familiar and kind.

By the time his eyes are uncovered, the tears have slowed. The air is cold against his skin. He tries to open his eyes and winces. 

The lids pull unpleasantly and gunk cements his lashes together (or at least he  _ thinks  _ it’s gunk and not old blood, but there is no mirror to check with). The hands smooth a damp cloth across his cheeks and nose and eyes, cleaning that which Fahmi cannot see. It’s slow work, but soon enough it is done and his eyes crack open the barest sliver. Everything is blurry. 

He blinks. Opens a little more.

Still blurry.

No matter how many times he blinks or the cloth is smoothed gently over his lids, everything stays blurry. It is absolutely  _ terrible _ .

Half a cup of water later, he can manage some speech but his vision is no clearer. “Aym’ric.”

It’s the sensation of his voice and carefully clinical touch that gives him away. Even without anything near a clear view of the Lord Commander’s visage, his presence is identifiable. An ally whose steadfast nature finds him at the bedside of Hydaelyn’s failure of a Champion. 

What a sorry post.

“Wha’s th’ need f’r worry? Ain’ th’ f’rst time,” Fahmi rasps. “It’ll heal. Pr’bably.”

He feels a little wild, running on post-wake adrenaline and distracting amounts of pain. What solid and immovable filter he held had been smashed to pieces along with every broken bone he bears. Aymeric fidgets, movements clear in the rustling of fabric and creak of well-worn leather. 

His words bear softened consonants and a sharper edge of anxiety when he asks, “Need I have reason to care for the well-being of a friend?”

“Not sayin’ you can’t, but don’ jus’ sit and feel bad ‘bout it. You’re a steel-hearted type. Bad f’r you.”

“Steel-hearted…?”

“Yeah,” Fahmi replies, “y’r a class-A knight. Like ‘im. Miss ‘im a lot…” His chest aches acutely, but he thinks it’s just a cracked rib and not his heart. Aymeric shifts. 

“I─he would wish you a swift recovery, I am sure.”

Fahmi blinks again and asks, “Then why ‘re you lyin’ t’ me?”

“I am not─”

“Lyin’. Yeah y’are,” he interrupts. “‘M recoverin’ and there’s all there is to it. No reason f’r worry unless y’r hidin’ s’mthin’ an’ I know y’ are, so…” 

They sit in silence for a long moment before Aymeric sighs. His tone is placating and nearly alien when he says, “I have something to tell you and it is… less than heartening, I am afraid.”

“We lost?”

“Wha─no! By the  _ Fury,  _ you care more for the war than your own health!”

Fahmi wishes he could shrug and instead flops his head over ever so slightly in Aymeric’s vague direction. “Most of m’ memories are of war, Aym’ric. ‘S m’ job.”

“How long have you been adventuring?”

“Too long. Ahir is g’nna be upset again b’cause I got messed up.” He inhales, relishing in the relief of a deep breath even when it makes his entire rib cage light up with pain, and asks, “Wha’s bad, if we won?”

There is another silence wherein all he can hear are measured breaths and the steady ticking of a chronometer he cannot see. Aymeric reaches out and wraps a hand around one of his, careful of bandaging Fahmi nearly did not notice, and chokes on his words. It takes him a couple tries and a soft murmur of,  _ “I’s okay, Aym. Don’ force y’rself.” _

“You’re going blind.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Aymeric huffs a laugh. “That was calm.”

“Thought I already was,” Fahmi admits with a lopsided attempt at a smile. “Can’t see a thing, unless th’ world ‘as turned t’ blobs.”

“It should not be that bad yet,” he says with a tangible frown. “May I fetch a Chirurgeon?”

Fahmi makes a vague noise of assent, coughing a little and shuddering with the aftershocks of pain. He goes quiet. 

Aymeric slips from the room, presumably somewhere in Ishgard, if it’s as quiet and cold as it seems, and does not return for several minutes. It feels like a small eternity between when the door eases closed and when it opens again.

“Mr. Nikephoros, ‘it’s good to see you awake.”

He whispers a greeting and has to stop a yawn from pulling at the scabs all along his cheeks. He’s  _ tired.  _ The light has changed somewhat, but it could always be that someone is standing in front of a candle or window. It’s not like he could tell the difference, now.

The chirurgeon is vaguely familiar but undoubtedly new to the practice, words rehearsed rather than reflex when they ask, “Please open your eyes wide as you can and—ah, perfect. A moment, if you please.”

Fahmi feels them handle his face, carefully checking over scrapes and odd burns like he is liable to shatter should they press too hard on a stress point. There is some murmuring and mumbling too quiet to be heard over the ever present  _ thump, thump, thump _ ing in his head and ears. The chirurgeon puts some sort of fluid on his eyes. He blinks. 

The blurriness decreases ever so slightly, but not nearly enough to count as anything other than negligible. 

“How is it?”

“Same.”

“I see,” they reply with all due seriousness. “You are in no way afflicted with a blinding curse or other malignant potable, which is good. Your eyes are permanently damaged more than we feared, however.”

Fahmi sighs like the air itself has let him down. “‘Kay.”

“We’ll check back in a few hours to see if you’re ready for some aetheric infusions to promote further healing. Due to the amount of radical aether suffused in your body at the time of recovery, we were unable to appropriately apply any magicks without extreme risk of rejection.”

“My ‘pologies,” he says with an appropriate measure of guilt. “Shouldn’ta used White. Fairies ‘re safer…”

Aymeric makes a sound not unlike he’s been punched in the gut by someone wearing drachen mail. Fahmi flicks an ear toward him and regrets the motion near immediately when it makes his scalp prickle. It is a terrible sensation and he wishes to never experience it again, please and thank you.

“Thank you for your counsel and assistance, Ser,” Aymeric says, professional despite the clearly unprofessional attachment he has for the Warrior of Light. “A moment, if you would?”

And Fahmi is left alone again. He is really beginning to hate the heartbeat studded silence of recovery. 

One minute turns to two, two to five, five to fifteen, then an entire bell where he lays and counts breaths and seconds until the door creaks back open for a second time. “Aym’ric?”

“Be calm, my friend,” someone says and his breath catches so sharply he thinks he may truly die from shock if not a cramping diaphragm. 

_ Impossible. _

“Haurche—“

“Hush,” the specter, imitation,  _ something  _ soothes. “Be still. Allow yourself this rest. It is not yet your time to see what waits beyond.”

And as if compelled, he does. Sounds fade to silence and he finds his eyes sliding closed. He is so… very tired… it would not hurt to rest a little, he thinks. Just until Aymeric gets back… just until then…

And, like a whisper, he is asleep and alone again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aymeric is not good with alcohol or feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again with bad description and pining

Aymeric de Borel considers himself a man of virtue if not piety. He places his hopes in the people and their might before that of Halone. As his people are sure to march into war come the morn, he seeks out a place to pray. 

He finds three things he did not expect, in the process:

One being a very,  _ very  _ drunk Warrior of Light, two being the single bottle of Ishgardian rum half emptied next to him, and three being his absolute lack of appropriate dress. 

Aymeric has seen his fair share of drunkards and dubious dives, but to see the (in)famous Eikon Slayer whose drink aversion has led him to states of severe dehydration actively pouring himself a shot straight from bottle to mouth with shirt discarded—it is not an occurrence that he could have predicted.

“Good evening.”

“Evenin’,” Fahmi greets. “Wan’s’me?”

Aymeric holds back an internal wince. What accent had been present is only worsened by drunkenness to the point it’s a nigh unintelligible slur. He is careful with his words when he asks, “Have you company to finish that much?”

“Jus’me. Me n’ th’ Crystal.” Fahmi lifts the bottle with one uncoordinated hand and stares through the glass. “Aether’s g’nna burn it  _ aaaall _ out inna bell, ‘nyways.”

Aymeric sits down gingerly, folds his legs underneath him, and takes the rum before Fahmi can tip it back again for an inadvisable swig. He avoids the resultant grasping hands and sounds of displeasure to instead cap it and sit it a good few feet away. “Regardless of resistance, I am sure you would not be so happy to wake with pains,” he explains softly. “You’ve many a job to do.”

Fahmi grumbles something about Aymeric being a horrible, terrible person to steal his alcohol before the words catch up to him and he all but shouts, “I know—I know an’ I  _ hate  _ it!”

“Is there anything I— _ Ishgard  _ can do to bear part of your burden,” he asks, more to himself than anything. “We owe you more than our lives.”

“Go home. Sleeeeeeb—eep? Eeb? ‘Ey, Aym’ric?”

“Yes?”

“Wha’s the w’rd ‘gain?”

“Sleep. With a P, not a B.”

Fahmi snorts with derision. “B sounds better. Sounds like  _ bastard.” _

Aymeric raises a brow and eyes the bottle of rum again. “Who taught you that?”

“Mi’filia!”

He sighs and the image of the Scions’ Antecedent is shattered like untempered glass. He is halfway to redirecting when Fahmi opens his mouth and says something scarily sobering.

“‘M goin’ t’ die t’morrow. Again. Wha’s this? Third time? Sev’nth? Don’like it one  _ bit, _ Aym. Lemme jus’ stay down this time, yeh?”

Aymeric opens his mouth, closes it, struggles to ask how he could have walked from Halone’s Halls back to the forefront of the Eorzean Alliance forces, and instead defaults to listening while the Miqo’te prattles on about Raise abuse and how his cohealers must be tired of him.

How could he be so sure of death? It is not a hope many hold, to escape unscathed, but most pray for protection and deliverance rather than to be left face-down in the dirt. Fahmi simply amends his request for rest with a last minute “mud tastes bad. Flowers’re better. Sand is th’  _ worst.” _

Aymeric manages a strained, “And you’ve died in places with each of those _ when?” _

Fahmi makes a pass at the bottle and fails, Aymeric’s hands steady on his arms where he stops him from drinking himself to a new type of death. His ears flick in response to things unheard and his pupils are blown. It feels like he speaks in tongues when he says, “I died ‘n Ishgard, once.”

The soft “oh” that escapes him does not do the revelation justice, Aymeric thinks. It’s reflexive—more an exhale than a response—and quiet. He can barely hear it above the whisper of a midnight breeze.

There is no denying the casualty rate of adventuring. That many good people die in pursuit of treasure or the barest sliver of coin is not lost on him. He has seen the reports. He knows. They have a death count to to rival Ishgard’s, at times. He had simply thought that… that Fahmi had not died. If he was still breathing, he had never been killed. The scars that worry him were simply brushes with it and not reminders, things that whispered,  _ “Remember when Odin cleaved your head from your shoulders? What about the shackles you barely managed to be free of? The assassination attempt? The burning? The failure that left you bisected and bleeding, staring at things you should never see, and wondering if this is truly the last time you can toe that line?” _

The stiffness he carries now makes sense. It is a terrible tension. Something near inimitable in its strict requirements for ownership. It is a brand brighter than the White Magic he wields—Fahmi Nikephoros is supposed to be dead. Should be dead. Is on his way to it again like clockwork.

Aymeric finds it difficult to swallow past the tightness in his throat.

“‘M tired o’ it, Aym. Not th’  _ dyin’ _ re th’ pains. Don’ wanna keep lyin’ to ‘em. Not their messiah.” 

“You… aren’t lying?” Aymeric isn’t quite sure what he is contesting with those words. 

Fahmi snorts, leaning back and shoving hair back behind his shoulders without care. His voice is halfway to sober when he says, “Stop tellin’ me ‘bout what y’see. Tha’s just what I show you. Same thing Haurche saw. ‘E died f’r me. Couldn’t raise ‘im.”

“I struggle to see how that is related.”

“Haurche said smile. ‘M smilin’ a  _ lot  _ more now. Does it look good? Heroic?” He waits for an answer. 

Aymeric eyes the bottle of alcohol before picking it up and taking a large swallow. It burns on the way down. He coughs a couple times and wonders aloud, “How are you managing this much without a chaser?”

“Tastes like flamin’ piss, but tha’s th’ point.”

“You could have asked for something nicer.”

Fahmi shrugs. 

“Though I suppose that defeats the point, if you’re going after bad taste and high alcohol content.” 

“Goin’ after poison,” he admits. “Shoulda stolen somethin’ from th’ Flames, come t’ think o’ it.”

Aymeric breathes deeply, silently praying for deliverance and patience, and tosses the entire bottle off the rooftop they sit upon. It shatters loudly and Fahmi groans, punching him on the shoulder none too gently. 

“C’m _ on _ , Aym!”

Aymeric ignores his minor tantrum of groans and halfhearted stomping to ask, “Why are you searching for poison?”

Fahmi’s ears press backward and his eyes focus on something far out in the distance. He breathes deeply, stretching his arms above his head and arching his back, joints popping and clicking worryingly loud. There is a long moment where he does not speak, taking time to settle back down and curl in on himself. 

Aymeric very pointedly does not look at the bright, nearly star-shaped divot of a scar a scant few ilms above his waist. He had thought it to be a passing blow when Fahmi waved off the chirurgeons and settled down to wreathe himself in aether, watching with adrenaline-sharp eyes as they treated Estinien. 

There is an adjoining mark on his back. 

The lance would have had to pierce clean through.

It’s only when Aymeric has been thoroughly bested by his curiosity that Fahmi speaks, head resting on his knees and voice very soft, “Been here too long. Thought… thought it might be okay. If I stopped.” He shakes his head, black hair falling forward like a curtain to obscure most of his face. “Kinder way t’ die than Zenos. Don’ wanna be his  _ beast.” _

Aymeric is not sure he has ever heard him speak with so much vitriol.

“Not a plaything, Aym,” he asserts, a growl rumbling audibly in his chest. “Not for anyone.”

“So you would seek death, to avoid it.”

“Yeah.”

Aymeric… does not know what to do with this newfound information. He suddenly wishes he had not tossed the bottle of rum because a drink to forget his shortcomings is sounding like a mightily wonderful thing. He settles on saying, “There is no power I know that you could not best.”

Fahmi shakes his head, somehow becoming smaller without much movement. “Tha’s what ‘m ‘fraid of.”

“That you are the only one?”

He nods. 

“Have you no adventuring companions who share in your burden?”

A breeze sweeps by and Fahmi shivers. A cocoon of aether warms the stone against his back. “No.”

“Your brother wou—“

“Not ‘im.”

Aymeric stops, closes his mouth, and frowns. “Is there any such reason that you would refuse the assistance so readily given?”

Fahmi’s ears flick, earrings jingling softly, and he whispers, “He’s died f’r me, before. Not again. Can’t do it again.”

“Him or you?”

“Both.”

“Ah.”

They lapse into silence. 

Aymeric clears his throat. Fahmi looks out at him from behind the spill of his hair, the gold of his eyes a vivid counterpoint to his blackened sclera. He blinks. 

“Y’gonna say anything?”

Aymeric takes a deep breath. He is barely thinking when he says, “When this is over, you could stay.” He isn’t sure what  _ “stay”  _ means as more than a command until Fahmi raises his head and smiles, the motion unsure and unpracticed in its sincerity. 

“Thank you, Aym.”

Aymeric swallows, smiles back, and has to consciously avoid rubbing at the pain in his chest. Fahmi could retire, settle down somewhere peaceful and grow old on his own time instead of borrowed seconds. He could stay in Ishgard, or Othard, or buy that run-down cottage in the Twelveswood he’s been eyeing for a couple years. He could live. 

He could do so without knowing of Aymeric’s wayward affection.

The thought of it hurts in a familiar way. Halone encourages self-restraint and the denial of temptation. He needs to pray. 

Standing, he excuses himself. Fahmi waves him off, telling him to rest and stop being so chivalrous. Aymeric smiles, though it is not nearly as true as the one he was given, and climbs down the steps to wander back to camp. 

He opens his tent flap and sits down heavily upon a crate, glancing at the sealed bottle of spiced wine a fulm away from his bedroll. He heavily considers grabbing it and popping the cork before Estinien knocks dully on the outside of the canvas.

“Mind some company?”

“Yours? Never. Come in, my friend.”

And he is grateful for the calming bite of metal gauntleted hands on his shoulders come the morning, too. Estinien holds him back from joining the flurry of armored chirurgeons and white-robed alchemists cleaning away blood and dirt from torn-up skin, drags him away from the infirmary to force food and drink into him, allows for tears to soak into his shoulder when they are out of their armor and barely sane. He is more solid than the stone of the Vigil when one of the chirurgeons sends for him, waits until he is seated on an uncomfortable chair in the corner of their tome-packed office, and says, “Ser Fahmi has been permanently blinded.”

Aymeric folds his hands pleasantly in his lap and asks, “And you know this how?”

“Severe trauma to the head and face. You are welcome to wait until he wakes. His vitals are stable, now.”

“I—thank you. Pray excuse me.”

Estinien stares when he closes the door. “Not as bad as I thought.”

Aymeric grimaces. He finds it difficult to force words out when his ears are full of echoes of his own heartbeat. His voice is smaller than intended when he asks, “What did you expect?”

“Death, likely,” Estinien replies, blunt as always. “You seem closer to it than he, nowadays.”

“Truly?”

“Aye.”

“I shall rest at his bedside,” Aymeric says, seeking some form of compromise before Estinien makes the executive decision to drag him away for some much-needed sleep. 

Estinien nods stiffly. 

“Thank you, my friend. That I could repay you for your patience would be the only blessing I need.”

He waves Aymeric off, steering him down the hallway to a heavy, timeworn door. “Rest as you will. Halone forbid I keep you from worrying.” 

He watches as Aymeric hesitantly opens the door, slipping inside and settling down awkwardly on a rickety wooden chair near to the bedside. Fahmi sleeps without disturbance, nearly more bandage than man.

He closes the door and sighs. Aymeric will be fine. He always is, somehow, even if he has to make some minor drama of it. 

It’s convenient. Estinien can simply wait for it all to blow over and then ignore how Aymeric has been mooning after someone unattainable for all of two years. It will be fine, given time, and so will Estinien’s heart.

He eyes the nearest window before leaning back against the wall and closing his eyes. He would wait at Aymeric’s side all the same. 

**Author's Note:**

> am just a little creacher,,, writing OC fic and crying over it,,,
> 
> hmu on:  
> tumblr ─ https://ffxivimagines.tumblr.com/ and https://house-nikephoros.tumblr.com  
> twitter ─ twitter.com/FlamingAceKiri  
> discord ─ NekoAisu#7099


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